


Saving My Soldier

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Teenlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom, teenlock!johnlock
Genre: Familial Abuse, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, johnlock self-harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:06:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1414447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenlock!Johnlock. In an AU where injuries on your soulmate's body appears on yours too. Sherlock notices strange cuts on his legs and investigates. (TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm and abuse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Now it Begins

Mycroft has realised.  
I had a long time ago. It was almost dull figuring it out. But Mycroft seemed very excited to 'enlighten' me about his discovery.  
He won't tell anybody but me about it. And he will not allow me to share our 'secret'.

I could notice it as a child; couples with the same split lip. Identical bruises on partner's arms. Obvious.

But for some reason, although Mycroft had seen it all, he had failed to observe any of it.

Now he has a boyfriend - Graham I think. While they were out together one day Graham slipped and bruised his leg on a fence. The next day Mycroft shared the same bruise.

That's when I realised what was happening on my thighs. For a few weeks I had noticed neat lines of cuts below my hips. Too neat to be accidental.

Either at 4am every night someone has been sneaking into my bedroom and cutting OCD-level-neat scratches into my legs; or my soulmate has severe OCD and is regularly self-harming.

Which is not a nice concept to think about. I want to help them. But with no way of contacting my other half until we find each other I can't do a thing.

I am always in control of my mind. That is a constant in my life, but now I'm getting irrational. Guilt is consuming me. I know it is not my fault they are hurting themself; however I feel like it is my fault for not stopping it.

Then this morning I got an idea. I cannot believe it has taken me so long to get this:

If I can see their scars - they can see mine. I need them to acknowledge me, to know I care.

So I went to the kitchen, got out a knife and slit vertically down my left leg.

They would definitely notice it. Because if I'm right - and I'm barely wrong - my soulmate had OCD. They have been making the cuts perfectly: the same number on each leg, equally spaced apart, at the same length and depth.

It might be cruel because it will get in their mind and make them hate themself. But at least it will get their attention.

Now I wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OCD - OCD stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a mental disorder that make someone obsessed with neatness, tidiness and/or germs.
> 
> ***  
> Sorry for the chapter being so short but I just needed to quickly introduce the story. I will make the other chapters longer but because I am often quite busy I will still keep them quite small so I can keep updating as regularly as possible.


	2. First Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to make contact.

This morning I woke up and went to take a shower.

 

I couldn't feel anything unusual or different with thighs but I didn't know if I was supposed to.

 

They must have seen my mark though, because they cut every single night and it would be impossible to miss my scar.

 

I took my pyjama pants off and my eyes went straight to my thighs in the mirror.

 

They had seen it alright.

I was correct about the OCD. Because sure enough, on my right leg was a small cut - completely symmetrical to the one I had made on the left.

 

They may or may not have realised that it was their soulmate who had done it. Even slightly intelligent beings know about the whole soulmate-injuries thing.

 

On the other hand they may have just assumed it was an accident scratch they got.

 

Either way, they had to make a matching cut.

 

And suddenly I feel guilty again. Worse this time. Worse because this time I know that it was my fault.

And I feel terrible about it.

 

But I have to cut again.

It is our only contact and even if it hurts us both it must continue.

 

So I decide to leave having a shower and go back to my room.

 

I open my wardrobe and take a box from the bottom.

 

It's a stationery box that my parents bought me last year. Ridiculously overpriced and completely unused.

The contents of the box are much more efficient than kitchen knives. I pause and think. I could take the blade out of my pencil sharpener; but I need something more accurate - something I could write with.

 

After a while I settle on a compass.

 

I sit on my unmade bed - still trouserless - and carve:

" _Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes_ "

I can't think of anything else to write, and that will probably be enough for the moment anyway.

 

It does not go deep enough to draw blood, but it scratches my leg enough to be seen and leave a faint scar for two days or so.

 

***

I try to get ready for school but I can't concentrate.

I don't want to miss a reply and keep them waiting for an answer while being taught irrelevant rubbish that I already know.

 

Changed back into my pyjamas, I go back to the bathroom. I hold my head under hot water in the sink in my en suite. When I think I'm hot enough, I run downstairs and find my mother as soon as possible.

 

The moment I asked about staying home, Mother started checking the temperature of my forehead - a completely useless and inaccurate way of taking temperature, but I wasn't about to mention that to her.

She immediately agreed that I must be unwell. I looked pale apparently. Mother insisted that I take the day off and stay in my bedroom.

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> I keep saying 'they' or 'them' when referring to Sherlock's soulmate. This is because at this point in the story Sherlock does not know his soulmate's gender and will not assume gay soulmates are out of the question what with Mycroft's soulmate being Greg.  
> I know that it is not canon to BBC Sherlock that Sherlock's parents are all posh and rich but that's just how I imagine them so that's how I will write them in this fic.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. How to help?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't know what to say.

Last time I didn't feel a thing on my leg when they cut.

I assume this time will be the same so I keep checking my leg every half an hour.

 

The time in between checks was spent trying to think up something to say when they had replied.

 

After the third check, I realised that even if they see my message there is no guarantee that they will reply.

But even if they don't reply, they will have to make a matching cut or it will drive them crazy. So as long as there is no matching cut, I know that they have not seen my message yet. Which means that so far, they are not ignoring me.

Very reassuring.

 

The fifth time I check my leg I find a mirroring cut and a reply. The reply has a mirroring cut as well. Of course it does. OCD. Now they have made four cuts that are all my fault; the vertical cut, a mirror of my message, their reply and a mirror of their reply - because all of their cuts have to match.

 

No time to feel guilty again - I have to reply. I look down at my leg again.

 

“ _Hello. My name is John Watson_ ”

Rough handwriting. Odd. I would have thought it would be neater since he takes so much care with his cuts. Could be a shaky hand – stress? Fear? I don’t know. Odd.

 

At least now I know my soulmate’s name: John. Simple. I like it.

 

Even with all the time thinking about it, I didn’t come up with anything to say to him. 

 _I love you._?

No. Maybe?

I don't know. Odd again. I don't like not knowing. It feels... weird.

 

With my trousers still around my knees, I waddle to my wardrobe and take the compass out of it's box.

Sat down on my bed, I write:

" _Please don't hurt yourself._ "

 

Stupid thing to say really, it's not like he can just stop. And even if he could, why would he do it for some stranger who's writing on his leg?

At least I'm trying.

 

After pulling my pants back on, I lie down in bed and try to sleep. I can't. While lying, I realise that apart from answering me, John hasn't hurt himself since the last time.

That's something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically the only change from the last chapter is that Sherlock knows John's name, I know that the story is going a bit slowly at the moment but I swear it will pick up soon :p On another note, this fic is a bit different since it's self-harm from not the cutter's point of view. I quite like writing it like this but I was wondering if anybody would like to hear any of it from John's POV? Hope you're all enjoying it anyway :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning: This chapter has descriptions of abuse and self harm so if that is in any way triggering to you then please don't read on.**

John didn't reply for the rest of the day. I tried to come up with a reason why he didn't but I have nothing to go on.

 

I kept checking my leg all day. And all night.

Nothing.

 

I didn't sleep because I kept checking - just in case.

At the time it didn't occur to me that John probably wouldn't reply at 2am. But then again why should I assume he is in my timezone? _Oh God, I hope he isn't American._

 

 

***

Sitting back down after another check, I notice the alarm clock on my bedside table.

7am.  _Shit._

 

Today I'll go into school, no point staying home again. I rush to take a quick shower and get dressed.

When I get in the kitchen Mycroft is sat at the counter eating croissants, drinking tea and reading a newspaper. As I walk past him I don't look up but I can see his eyes following me as I get the coffee out of a cupboard. I fill the kettle with water and flick it on. I put two teaspoons of granules in a mug and turn to lean against the fridge. Mycroft's eyes swiftly shift to his newspaper as I turn around. I don't feel that I could eat right now and I take my coffee black - quicker caffeine intake - so I don't need to get the milk and I stay where I am until I hear the kettle flick off. I pour water into the cup and stir then I leave the kitchen with my coffee without even talking to Mycroft. I can feel him watching me leave. He never usually looks at me so much. Maybe he knows something? It doesn't really matter though does it - what's my brother going to do about it if I'm hurting myself.

In my room I pack my school bag like normal, plus a compass in case John talks to me while I'm out. I sit on my bed and drink the coffee, God knows I'll need it to stay awake. When I'm completely ready I pull down my pants and have a last check for a reply none. I go down to wait in the car.

***

~John's POV from the night before~

I'll go out tomorrow, I'll just go and find somewhere quiet and get some goddamned sleep. Anywhere would be better than here. Apart from school. I'll just go a library or a nice coffee shop and sleep for hours. God knows I need to, soon I'll start hallucinating again if I don't rest.

I should buy some noise cancelling earbuds or something. The only thing stopping me sleeping here is all the bloody shouting. At least Dad's not shouting in my room again. Now it's in Harry's and she's shouting back twice as loud - thank God I didn't pick up the same habits. Or maybe that would have been better, a quick death by liver poisoning? Too late now; I'm not planning on going near alcohol in a million years, I know what it can do. Not that a fucking drink could control me anyway.

"HARRY GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY NOW!" my Dad's boomed downstairs, he's probably run out of money for booze again. Harry had better pay him, I can't deal with him in here again.

"WHAT MONEY? I SPENT IT ON YOUR LIQUOR ALREADY YOU DICK!" Harry screamed back at him. No. No. No.

The best times are when it is calm. Those times are very rare because calm means quiet and safe. But quiet is never safe for me. Quiet is not knowing what will happen next - quiet means that a storm is brewing. I can't remember the last time quiet didn't scare me. That's not to say that hearing what's going on isn't worse. There is barely a difference; silence means unexpected and not knowing what will happen, noise means you know what to expect next and if it's something bad then you have to wait for it to happen and be over and that's it. The waiting. That's how you get scared.

For about thirty seconds there is silence from downstairs. Two very loud slaps and a wail from Harry. Then I hear sobbing for a second before she runs up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door as hard as she probably could in her state.

Quiet again - apart from Harry's crying in the room next to me - then I hear Dad's angry roar from the bottom of the stairs. He starts going up, he's slow and thuds with every step and he stumbles three times, grunting as he stands up again.

I sit on my bed and begin to panic. He could be going to Harry's room. He could be going to Harry's room. He could be going to Harry's room. I quickly repeat to myself. I realise that I've started to hyperventilate so I start counting my breaths. Seven seconds in, eleven seconds out. Seven. Eleven.

He walks past the door to Harry's room. Seven. He falls over. Eleven. Bangs on the door, I start crying quietly and stand up. Seven. I walk to the door. Eleven. I open the door. He grabs my collar, shoves me to the side and slams the door. He pushes me up to the door and holds me there by a hand on my neck. Seven. Three. Six. Four. Shit.

Dad slaps me hard across the face.

"GIVE ME YOUR MONEY YOU USELESS CUNT!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I decided that instead of posting a new chapter sooner I'd write a longer than usual one but I got sidetracked with stuff (totally not a three day Gavin & Stacey marathon :p) then I was going to finish editing the draft and post on Friday morning but I was in a rush to go to London (where I saw Birdland and met Andrew Scott aaahhhh) so I left it until now sorry! I don't know if the switching of POV was okay so opinions and constructive criticism is very welcome :3 If anyone if wondering then that 7 and 11 breathing technique is a real thing and it is proven that breathing out longer than in helps calm you by releasing some sort of chemical and it's really helped me when I have panic attacks :) I've stopped doing chapter titles because I'm lazy oops :p As always, thanks for reading and I hope you're all liking the story :)

**Author's Note:**

> OCD - OCD stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a mental disorder that make someone obsessed with neatness, tidiness and/or germs.
> 
> ***  
> Sorry for the chapter being so short but I just needed to quickly introduce the story. I will make the other chapters longer but because I am often quite busy I will still keep them quite small so I can keep updating as regularly as possible.


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